Author's Note:
This is the chapter..... This is the reason I've warned you from the start; things will get bad as they can get. This chapter is one of those where I feel I have to warn you: if you have triggers related to breathing, please stop reading after the scene with Isabelle. There is also one mention of potential self harm (that serves a purpose). These have purposes in the story that will become clear in the final two chapters.
Kink/Trigger warnings: service slavery, spanking, abduction, edge play, breath loss, interrogation tactics, rope suspension play, wax play, electrostimulation play.
Major Trigger Warning for this chapter! Skip if you have triggers related to breathing.
Final warning:
King's a brutal son of a bitch. There WILL be one majorly "scary" scene in this chapter for Jazz. But no, this is not the final chapter. You have three more to go.
Chapter: Business Not Pleasure
When I'm escorted to King's office the next day, I feel strange. Devon put me in heels, stockings, and a black dress meant for a boardroom, and then had Danny do my hair into a bun. I even have a sweater. The only lingering marker of my status is the silver chain that is hex locked to my neck and the anklet that tracks me.
I've never been in King's hands. Not once, which makes this all the more unnerving.
The Untouchable King holds the chains of the purse, and he gives no leniency from what I've heard. While I've read his rules and have seen the aftereffect of consequences, it's hard to know what to expect. Compared to ones like Black and Dream who thrive at public events, he is private in his methodology.
So standing before his desk, I don't know whether to prepare for the worst or expect the best as he looks me over.
"Welcome aboard, Jazmine. I prefer a useful slave over one that looks pretty," he warns as he gets up and walks over to a second door. "While you're with me, you will work as my secretary. I expect you to keep up."
He keys a code, then opens it to reveal a file room. "Sort them."
With no other directions, he picks up his laptop and leaves for his meeting.
How the fuck?
I pull a drawer open. Stacks on stacks of paper are crammed into folders. Names and account details are crossed between folders; nothing is in date order and I seem to only pull out more files from underneath.
It's secretarial hell.
Swallowing the ball in my throat, I start pulling things out until the drawer is emptied.
When he returns to check my progress, I have multiple stacks started and a vague idea of what I'm looking at. He says nothing, working on his own tasks within his office space and generally ignoring me. By the time I have the drawer empty, there are 135 piles in alphabetic order.
Then it's going through the folders to date order everything, inventory, and double-check account numbers.
I've got the drawer sorted when I realize that this particular set of files is from ten years ago. In fact, as I look over the drawers in this room... they're all from ten years ago or less if the labels are accurate.
That should mean my contract is in here too. Though I doubt he'd leave it in here. If there's anything I know about them, it's that they're always watching.
I turn around and take the next drawer down to sort.
By evening, I've completed one full cabinet of paperwork and am working on the late eight-year files when the door opens.
King's gray eyes scan over the room. "Show me what you've done."
I open the four drawers and explain how they're organized by year, alphabet, and then each folder by each set of documents' date. I show him the color coordination of the tag's dots that show if the file ended or continued the next year. And I show him how I've made an easy guide that shows which file is where.
He takes it in with the same stoic expression as I might expect from a CEO. "You've done enough for the day. Follow."
I fall in step behind him. The sun's setting, and through the window, I can see the wind brushing through the trees.
Little golden drops of sunshine.
But all too soon we're in the elevator, and then the tinted car.
I miss the sun.
Through the concrete jungle's shadows, he drives to a suburb and then through a winding valley between hills where the houses sit like tiaras. They're decadent affairs, unique touches setting them apart and their sweeping lines accenting their size. Each house is like a trophy proclaiming the wealth of the one who owns it.
I try to think about his rules while he drives. They didn't tell much about his styling; they were basically the same as the rules of the House. He's stringent on enforcement there. Isabelle's stripes are proof enough that he can be harsh; I don't want to experience that side of him.
Though he parks in the garage, he doesn't go directly in. No, he unbuckles his seatbelt and then reaches into the glove box. A hex key to the chain on my neck is in his fingers and with a gesture, he has me turn.
"You'll find I don't mix business and pleasure." He comments, removing it after a few quick twists. He collects the chain and tucks it into the center console.
What he pulls out drops any hope that this is going to be a pleasant experience.
It's not a collar. Not really. It's a piece of barbed wire wrapped around a piece of black leather. It swings back and forth as he dangles it in front of me by the iron center ring with a smirk. "Is there a problem,
slave
?"
"No, Sir," I whisper.
"Then strip and put it on," he orders.
He doesn't wait for me; he heads into the house.
I fold the clothes I'm wearing as I take them off, setting them on the freezer. Getting on the barbed collar is trickier; I get stabbed twice by the raised edges before I have it settled. The length makes it sit tighter at my neck than I'd usually like; I'm aware of it each time I tip my head.
Stepping into the house, I close the door quietly behind me and then wander into the kitchen. One girl is at the sink, washing dishes. She's dressed in a black velvet cocktail dress and heels, but that just makes the pink dog collar at her neck stand out more. She glances at me as I enter, but says nothing as she keeps washing.
King is in the living room; at his feet, another slave girl removes his shoes and then fetches him a tumbler with two fingers of whiskey. Her collar is blue; she's dressed like a waiter in a white button-down and black slacks. She goes to kneel when he snaps his fingers and points to the table. She fetches the blue binder and brings it to him quickly, but I notice that she's nervous in her movements as he opens it.
"Why is this not complete Lena?" His tone is displeased, and the flick of his eyes up to her leaves her squirming.
"I'm sorry Mr. King. I ran out of time."
"No, Lena," he muses, closing the binder. "If you had worked efficiently you would be done when I arrived. So you'll be taking a reduced deduction against your debt again today. If I have to reduce it after this, you'll be going to the auction block."
"Understood Sir," she replies meekly.
